


Just A Date

by thepinupchemist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Aftercare, BDSM, Bartender Dean, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester, Bubble Bath, Businessman Cain, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean has a Panty Kink, Dom Cain, Dom/sub, Hand Feeding, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sex Work, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kept Boy Dean, Kinda, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Panties, Panty Kink, Past Child Abuse, Porn, Praise Kink, Spanking, Sub Dean, Top Cain, Wealthy Cain, a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:52:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepinupchemist/pseuds/thepinupchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never expected to be kneeling at the feet of a much-older man in nothing but panties, but there he was.</p>
<p>He loved it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyHawke72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyHawke72/gifts).



> A commission for LadyHawke72 -- thanks for giving me something I've never tried writing before! This was fun to explore.

If you’d asked Dean where he’d be just a year ago, he sure as shit wouldn’t say that he expected to be in a penthouse apartment that belonged to a billionaire entrepreneur, let alone that the penthouse apartment also belonged to him. A year ago, Dean split his time between a day job fixing up cars and a night gig as a bartender at a seedy dive in a questionable part of Denver proper.

A year ago, Dean switched between living out of his car and scraping together enough money to make rent for a cold, cramped studio apartment. He wore threadbare shirts and jeans with holes in the knees, and he’d swear the grease stains on his hands were permanent no matter how much he scrubbed.

Dean didn’t grow up privileged. He and Sammy lived under the thumb of their piece of shit father, who compensated for the loss of his wife with the solace he found at the bottom of a bottle. Dean could protect Sam most of the time, but that meant he bore the brunt of their dad’s cruel words and harsh hands. Then Dad would cry after he sobered up, see the bruises from his hands wrapped around Dean’s wrists, or his blackened eyes, or his split lips. Somehow, even after everything, Dean ended up reassuring their dad that everything would be okay, that he forgave him, that Dean knew John didn’t mean to hurt him and it was an accident.

Dean was so far entrenched into his dad’s bullshit that he didn’t know how bad it was, not until their dad stumbled out onto a busy highway at night and got reamed by a car head-on for his trouble. And yeah, Dean mourned the loss of his father, even if Sam was relieved and unafraid to say it. Dean cried at their dad’s funeral, and Dean took on the mantle of responsibility to provide for Sam. He worked and worked and worked so that Sam didn’t have to.

Sam graduated high school. Dean had never been prouder.

But then Sam left Colorado at top speed to enroll at Stanford, and Dean kept working so that he could get Sam through school with minimal debt.

In December of last year, Sam stayed in California for the holidays. They couldn’t afford to fly him back, even if Dean was desperate to see his little brother after all that time.

That…that was when Dean met Cain.

To start with, Dean fucking hated the guy. He strode into the bar in a tailored, charcoal-colored suit and a silk tie, long, steely hair combed back. He exuded power from every inch of his body. Cain was a man that drew the eye, and the bar employees and patrons were no exception – heads turned when he walked in and took a calm seat right in front of Dean, who was wiping down the countertop where a drunk dude spilled his beer.

Cain waited for Dean to finish, and cleared his throat to get his attention. The gesture annoyed the shit out of Dean. Didn’t the pretentious fuck know that Dean would get there when he got there? Hell, a little patience wouldn’t kill him.

Still, Dean summoned a smile and some false cheer to ask, “What can I get you, man?”

And Cain, the bastard, looked Dean dead in the eye and said, “Are you available?”

Dean was so fucking surprised that he didn’t have the wherewithal to muster up an appropriate cutting comeback. Instead, the blood rushed to his face and heated his cheeks, and Dean managed a confused, “I’m sorry, _what_?”

“You,” Cain repeated, “Are you available?”

Dean didn’t recover in time to stop himself from asking, “Available for what?”

Of course he knew what. The guy thought Dean turned tricks on the side or something, that he was a cheap hooker that could be bought for a night and tossed aside with a couple hundreds more to his name after the evening. While, yeah, Dean had done what he had to do to feed himself and Sam over the years and keep them in the black, and yeah, that included trading sexual favors for money if he found himself in a bind, that didn’t mean he was just some piece of ass.

“A date,” Cain said.

Which was fucking ridiculous, because there was no way that somebody was after a date from Dean. Maybe he wasn’t only a piece of ass, but he also wasn’t dating material. Shit, Dean knew that. He was a high school dropout, a ghost with no future. Sam had promise and potential. Dean had…he didn’t have anything going for him, really, except maybe an irrational streak of pride that kept him fired up at Cain in that moment.

“Yeah, fuck you, buddy,” Dean snapped, “Order a drink or fuck off. I’m not on the menu.”

“I didn’t ask if you were on the menu,” Cain replied, “I asked if you were available for a date. But I’ll have a scotch. Neat, please.” And then he requested the top shelf shit, the kind of stuff so seldom ordered at a sticky, smelly joint like the one Dean worked in that the bottles gathered dust along their shoulders.

Cain stayed for the rest of Dean’s shift. Dean said, “We’re closin’ up, man, you gotta head out.”

Cain cocked a brow and said, “You never answered my question. Are you available for a date?”

“I’m not letting you rail me,” Dean said.

“Was that what I asked?” Cain said, tone all self-possession and quiet confidence (that Dean came to admire later, not that he would admit it much).

“No, but I know what you’re really asking, okay?” Dean answered, “I’m an idiot, but I’m not as dumb as I look. I’m not for sale.”

“I meant what I said,” Cain shrugged, “I merely want to treat you to a date.”

Dean rolled his eyes and shooed him out of the bar. He mopped up the floors and bussed the tables and stacked the chairs, and by the time that he collapsed on the mattress on the floor of his tiny studio apartment on the shitty side of town, Dean forgot about the entire encounter and passed the hell out. He needed some shut-eye if he was gonna show up on time for his seven o’clock shift at the garage the next morning.

Thing was – that night was only the first time that Dean met Cain.

Cain continued to crop up like a bad penny. He didn’t show for every one of Dean’s shifts, but he showed for enough of them that Dean knew any one of his given orders and knew to tell him to go fuck himself before he even took a seat on one of the bar stools. Every night, he wore a different but equally devastating designer suit, always paired with a different pair of gleaming dress shoes and an expensive tie. The cufflinks he wore rotated every week or so, and all of them looked to be real gold.

Dean remembered thinking that whoever the guy was, he was obviously loaded way beyond anything Dean had ever imagined.

Around two months passed before Dean finally asked one quiet night at the bar, “What’s your name anyway, man?” Cain tipped big and despite asking Dean out on a date every damn time he showed his mug, he didn’t persist if Dean got actually well and truly pissed about it.

“Cain,” he answered.

“Seriously?” Dean asked.

“Seriously,” Cain replied.

“Huh. I’m Dean,” Dean said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean,” Cain said, “Have you reconsidered going on a date with me?”

“Dude, come on,” Dean complained, “I don’t get it. You’re not ugly, you know? You’re actually pretty hot, but you’re here in this shithole trying to buy my dumb ass instead of some classy callgirl or whatever. They have those, you know. I’m pretty sure you can afford that kind of thing.”

“I could,” Cain agreed, “but that’s not what I’m after. I’m after a date. An evening out. Get dressed up, get dinner someplace nice, enjoy a night together. A date.”

“And then…sex?” Dean said, because to honest, he was getting confused.

“If the mood is right, I suppose I wouldn’t mind,” Cain said, idly running a finger through the condensation on the outside of his beer glass, “But to be honest, I prefer know my partners better first, and I want to know you better.”

“But – _why_?” Dean asked.

“You intrigue me,” Cain told him.

“I’m just some bum,” insisted Dean.

Cain cast him a sharp look at that and said, “I very much doubt that is true. From what I’ve seen of this establishment, your hard work keeps it afloat. You work harder than any other employee, and if I’ve heard you correctly, you also work a day job as a mechanic? ‘Some bum’ doesn’t work that hard for nothing.”

“It’s not for me,” Dean said, “It’s for my brother. I’m putting him through school.”

“DU?” guessed Cain.

“No,” Dean said, “Stanford. He wants to be a lawyer.”

“A smart young man, then,” Cain said. He looked impressed, and Dean didn’t bother to tamp down the pride that swelled behind his ribcage.

Dean huffed and bit back a smile. He ran his fingers through his hair and said, “Yeah, Sammy’s goin’ places. Sharpest kid I know, after his girlfriend. Hoo boy, I would not mess with that girl, you know? She knows her shit.”

“So you’re more than ‘some bum,’” Cain concluded, “You’re a loyal man dedicated to his work and to his family, and you’re willing to stop at nothing to care for your brother. I admire that.”

Dean never felt so naked in his life, and trust him when he said that he had been in some pickles in his time. He’d been tied up in motel rooms on seedy Denver streets. He’d been bent over in back alleys. He’d been roughed up, fucked over and spit on in every way imaginable but that moment was the moment that struck Dean as the barest experience he’d ever had.

“Um,” Dean managed to choke out, “Thanks. I guess.”

The remainder of his shift was awkward. Cain didn’t leave, but they didn’t pick up their conversation. A confused tangle of feelings wriggled around in his gut while he cleaned up after patrons as they came and went, though that night wasn’t one of the busier nights he’d seen. A thin layer of snow frosted everything outside the hazy bar windows, and while Coloradans hardly shied from venturing out during inclement weather, plenty preferred not to.

“All right,” Dean said, when the clock reached two in the morning, “It’s closing time.”

Cain smiled. He asked, “So, Dean. Do you think you’ll consider letting me take you out for a night?”

Dean heaved a long, tired sigh. Cain wasn’t unattractive – actually, it was way the opposite. While he obviously had a number of years on Dean, he was handsome as hell, and something about the way the guy carried himself made it impossible for Dean to turn him away every time that he came in and insisted upon a date.

“I don’t have anything nice to wear, man,” Dean said, and made a sweeping gesture over his flannel and jeans combo, “This is about as good as it gets.”

“No trouble,” Cain replied, “I can buy you something. I’ll send it to your address.”

“Uh,” Dean said, “You want me to give you my address? No offense, but that’s got creeper written all over it.”

“That’s all right,” Cain said, “I’ll bring you something here. I’ll have to guess your measurements, but I think it’ll suit you well enough.”

“Um,” was all that Dean could squeeze out.

“If you don’t want to, I won’t insist upon it,” Cain said, “but I think you do want to join me for an evening. I think you want to see what it’s like. I don’t have any expectations of you, Dean. If you’re uncomfortable after a night out, I’ll stop bothering you. But I don’t think you will be.”

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. His cheeks burned again. He shook his head and finally, he relented: “Okay. All right. Fine. I’ll go on a date with you. But Cain, buddy, you could find somebody way better than me, you know? You could be dating some guy putting himself through med school or like a scientist chick or something. You know, smart people.”

“I don’t want to date them,” Cain said, “I want to date you.”

Dean sputtered, but couldn’t come up with an appropriate response to that. He and Cain set their date for one of Dean’s nights off from work at the bar, and before Cain left, he flicked his typical way-too-generous tip onto the bar top. Those tips were keeping Dean in his apartment, so he wasn’t about to complain about maybe being a little bit bought.

Suffice it to say that Dean had no idea what the fuck he was getting himself into when he agreed to a date with Cain.

A couple days before Dean and Cain were due for their evening out, Cain showed up while Dean was in the middle of his bartending shift. Since the snowy weather remained consistent, the relative quiet of the bar followed suit. Only a couple folks took up stools that night – a homeless guy that paid for his beer in crumpled ones and change (he didn’t have enough for the second beer, but Dean covered the rest with his own money. Outside was cold as balls and Dean would rather the dude be safe inside than out in the snow), a guy in a cheap suit with his tie loosened and shadows under his eyes, and a couple of middle-aged women in a booth in the back.

Cain slid a sleek box to Dean across the bar when he shouldered his way into the building, and Dean lifted his brows.

“What’s this?” asked Dean.

“Open it and find out,” Cain replied. A trace of a smirk lifted the corners of his lips.

To hell with it, Dean figured, and he eased the lid off of the flat box.

“Jesus tapdancing Christ,” Dean exclaimed the moment he laid eyes on the contents. He dropped the lid in his surprise and it thunked against the bar top.

Inside the box lay a spotless, brand-spankin’-new designer goddamn suit, complete with silk tie and a set of tasteful silver cufflinks. The blood drained right out of Dean’s face at the sight of it, and when he glanced back up to Cain he demanded, “How the fuck much did you pay for this?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant, since it’s a gift,” Cain answered.

“I can’t take this,” Dean said.

“You can,” said Cain, “and you’ll wear it on our date. Unless you’d like to go to dinner in your usual clothes? I wouldn’t mind, but I did think that you would care.”

God, if Dean went to whatever fancy joint Cain was taking him to in his ratty jeans and a torn-up band t-shirt, he’d embarrass the guy. Sure, Cain said it wasn’t a problem, but Dean knew better than that. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, fitted the lid back to the box, and said, “Okay. All right. Yeah. I’m – I’ll wear it. Thank you. I guess. That’s – it’s really nice.”

The suit was the nicest thing that Dean had ever owned. Later, the suit became only one of many nice things that Dean owned, but at that moment, it was something truly goddamn special. Dean felt special carrying the box around the building to where he’d parked the Impala, felt special when he brought it inside his grubby apartment, and he felt special two nights later when he showered after his shift at the garage and pulled it on.

The suit fit like a glove, and the man looking back at Dean from his dirty mirror looked like the kind of guy that might actually know what he was doing. Such a brand of confidence was foreign to Dean. He floated through life doing what he had to do to survive. He wasn’t a high roller, wasn’t somebody important. He was just some white trash kid that grew up in a mobile home park off of Colfax, taking fists from his alcoholic dad and praying that his little brother didn’t turn out to be like him.

This Dean – the Dean in the mirror – maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if his little brother turned out something like this guy.

Throughout the date itself, Dean was nervous as all get-out. He’d never been inside a restaurant so fancy, and the prices on the menu made his hands shake just looking at them. Cain told him not to worry about it, but worrying about money was practically in Dean’s blood at this point. It would be a hard poison to drain from him. But damn if that food wasn’t good. Dean got a taste of the most tender, juicy steak he’d ever had in his life, and drank wine that he thought might cost more than his monthly rent.

At the end of the night, Cain walked Dean to his car. He leaned down and brushed the faintest of kisses to his lips before he pulled away. Dean found himself chasing after Cain’s mouth as he drew back, surprised that he wanted more. Cain chuckled. His eyes sparkled.

“Goodnight, Dean. I had an excellent time,” Cain said, “Would you join me for another date next week?”

Dean chewed on his lip and tried not to ask again why Cain was doing this. Instead, he offered a tentative smile, discomfort swirling up in his chest, and said, “Yeah. I’d, uh, I’d like that. I’m off from the bar on the same nights as this week.”

“I was thinking about something during the day,” Cain said, “There’s a car show, all classics. I thought you might like to go.”

“Hell yeah I wanna go,” Dean said, both pleased and surprised. A car show was way more his speed than a fancy restaurant.

But even though the car show wasn’t as high class as the dinner on their first date, Cain still brought new clothes to the bar to give to Dean. There were butter-soft designer jeans folded beneath a thick, dark red Henley. Wearing his old three-to-a-pack Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs underneath the things almost felt like a crime, but Dean kept that to himself.

The car show was amazing.

Cain kissed him again, this time with far more gusto.

But he didn’t suggest that they go to either of their places.

Soon, they’d traded cell numbers. Soon, Cain knew where Dean lived and sometimes picked him up. Soon, Dean knew where Cain lived, and _then –_

Then Cain finally invited Dean upstairs to his apartment, to a fucking penthouse goddamn apartment, filled with real paintings and lush, coordinating furniture so far from Dean’s couch that he found on the side of the road that they may as well have come from two different universes. He whistled appreciatively, but that was the only noise he got out before Cain pressed him back into the wall and kissed the breath right out of his lungs.

The sex was some of the best that Dean had ever had, if not _the_ best.

So they started doing it more. Cain liked to take the reins, liked to have control. Dean liked to let him. So much responsibility bore down on Dean from day to day that it was a relief, a godsend, to have even just a few hours where somebody else took the wheel and Dean didn’t have to think about anything. He let Cain push him around and he liked it. He always had. Dean confided in Cain that he’d played with partners on that knife’s edge before, let women in masks slap him around or men tie him up and fuck him.

And God, did he love it.

“Do you want to experiment with me?” Cain asked, stroking Dean’s hair after all of this information spilled out of his mouth. They were under the covers in bed, nude, and Dean’s entire body felt like jelly. He’d told Cain he should write a book on fucking, because shit, whatever he was doing was _working_ like Dean had never had something work for him before. Cain laughed, and then told Dean that his technique wouldn’t be as effective if everyone knew it.

Dean nodded mutely. His thoughts came in jumbled motion, but eventually he managed, “I’d like that a lot.”

Cain was nothing if not responsible, so he printed out information and lists of kinks for Dean to read over, lists where he checked his hard limits and his maybes and things that he knew that he liked. Nobody else Dean played with ever planned their scenes with such forethought. He’d had a safeword and called it a day. Cain’s thoroughness, though, instilled in Dean a sense of safety he didn’t know he’d lacked until he had it in his grasp.

He trusted Cain, and damn if that wasn’t scary. Dean Winchester didn’t trust anybody. Hell, sometimes he didn’t trust his own little brother, and he loved Sam more than anything on the planet.

The first time Dean and Cain tried a scene together, Cain tied Dean to the bed and fucked him stupid. Afterward, he rubbed aloe into the tender spots on Dean’s wrists and ankles, held Dean against his chest and stroked his hair. Dean was so sated that all he could do was murmur happy noises at the scrape of Cain’s neatly clipped nails against his scalp and fall asleep.

That – that marked the first time that Dean spent the night. Cain woke him early to allow plenty of time for Dean to make it to work at the garage. He cooked Dean bacon and eggs and brewed him coffee in a weird hourglass-shaped coffee thing that somehow made the best coffee Dean had ever tasted in his life. The guys at the garage teased him for so clearly having been laid, Benny even laughing that Dean was glowing and Charlie remarking that she’d never seen Dean smile the way he was before.

The relationship became so easy after that. Dean fell into sync with Cain with all the give of a memory foam mattress. They clicked together, and Dean was as enthralled with the rightness as he was terrified by it. No one ever treated Dean with such respect, not ever. Hell, they still argued from time to time, but when Cain flung out his arm in a sweeping gesture and Dean shrunk back instinctively, even the arguments rolled into something better than before.

(At Dean’s flinch, Cain’s face fell into something carefully blank and he said, “I would never strike you,” and then, “I’m sorry. May I hold you?” Dean landed in Cain’s arms faster than anything and let himself be held and his hair stroked. He couldn’t even remember what he was angry about after that occasion)

Cain apologized when he was wrong, and Dean said sorry when whatever happened was his fuck-up.

The novelty of apologies had yet to wear off.

Then, the nights that Dean stayed over in Cain’s apartment began to outnumber the nights Dean slept in his studio. The springs that dug into his back on the mattress at his place seemed to grind harder, the smell of mildew and dust seemed stronger, and the space was ever-shrinking, going smaller and smaller every time that Dean turned his key in the lock and stepped inside.

He had clothes at Cain’s. His toothbrush sat in a fancy toothbrush holder in Cain’s master bathroom. Somehow, some of his pulpy scifi books even made it to Cain’s place.

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that after a scene, after Cain massaged aloe into the red handprints all across Dean’s stinging ass and foisted water and a suspect organic-quinoa-weirdo granola bar upon him that Cain asked: “What would you think about moving in with me?”

Dean jerked his head up so fast that he smacked it against the bed’s headboard. He rubbed at his skull with a moan and said, “ _What_?”

“You’re here more often than not,” Cain reasoned, “You sleep better here, and I sleep better knowing you’re here with me.”

Unexpected anxiety seized Dean like a claw. Sure, he’d boned guys before, more often than not in the name of making money for himself and for his brother, but this…thing…he had going with Cain was the first romance-resembling-type relationship he’d ever experienced with another dude. Did Sam even know that Dean liked guys? His throat closed up and he couldn’t breathe, and somehow Dean made it from the bed to the corner of the bathroom, where Cain sat beside him and rubbed soothing circles over Dean’s back.

“It was just a thought,” Cain said, “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

“I know that,” Dean snapped, and felt immediately guilty.

Eventually, after Dean calmed down, he told Cain he’d think about it.

A mere week passed by before Dean stepped out of work at the garage, dialed Cain’s number, and told him that he wanted to move into the penthouse apartment.

Dean trashed his crappy furniture. His meager belongings ended up adding to a handful of boxes, and he worried that filing his things in with Cain’s would ruin the grandeur of the home but in truth seeing his many-times-read dollar books with their creased spines lined up alongside Cain’s pristine nonfiction and collector’s books struck Dean as looking right. It looked like home.

Dean’s favorite Led Zeppelin poster looked shockingly cozy in a nice, new frame, hung up among paintings worth actual thousands of dollars. Seeing their worlds collide filled Dean up with a frothy, warm sensation that left him walking on air.

Christ – he was _happy_. Dean was seeing a rich-as-fuck older guy with the taste of a king, was letting that older guy rail him into next week and tie him up and gag him and spank him and play with him and dictate his moves, and he loved it. He loved everything about it.

And now – _now_ – they’d grown together even more. Dean hummed while he cooked dinner and slid his eyes back to the clock to check that he had time enough to change out of his clothes and into the pair of panties that Cain laid out for him on the dresser in their bedroom before Dean woke, with a note that said _Wear only these when I get home_.

Dean managed the swap just in time, pulling expensive cream-colored silk and black lace over his legs. The sheer fabric stretched tight over Dean’s ass and half-hard cock. Already he was excited, and hell, who could blame him when Dean’s man left him a note like that and a scene to look forward to all day? He knelt on the carpet in the dining area beside Cain’s favorite chair just as the door swung open and Cain strode into the penthouse looking confident as usual in a blood red tie and a snappy suit.

A grin spread over Cain’s face as he took in the scene before him: Dean, kneeling in panties alongside Cain’s chair, and dinner set over the table with one place setting.

“My good boy,” he murmured, and Dean’s heart leapt at the praise. His eyes followed Cain as he set his briefcase down by the door. He left everything else, even keeping his shiny black shoes on as he tread to the dining table and took a seat.

Cain’s fingers pushed into Dean’s hair a beat later, running back and forth while he served himself with one hand. He commented, “This looks delicious. Did you make this all from scratch? You can speak.”

Dean leaned his head into Cain’s touch and answered, “Yes, sir.”

“I’m impressed,” Cain said. Dean preened at the praise, but didn’t say anything. He patiently waited for Cain to tuck into the meal and watched his lips close over the first forkful of roasted rosemary and garlic potatoes. He chewed, made an appraising noise, and added, “Perfect. Would you like some?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cain plucked one of the pieces of potato off of his plate and offered it to Dean. The flavor burst over Dean’s tongue, but he knew better than to release the noise of pleasure lodged in his throat. He chewed and swallowed without a sound and flicked his eyes up to Cain for guidance.

They sat together like that for the duration of the meal. Cain stroked Dean’s hair and hand-fed him potatoes and broccoli and sliced bite-sized pieces of lemon chicken for him between. Energy thrummed under Dean’s skin, the heat of anticipation. As soon as they finished eating, they could move to the bedroom and they could play. He was so ready for whatever Cain had in store for him that he could vibrate right out of his own body.

Which was why, after Cain put the dishes away while Dean knelt still beside the chair, and Cain moved them to the sofa in the living room instead of the master bedroom, disappointment and confusion swooped in Dean’s gut. Cain cocked a single brow at Dean’s expression and said, “Eager, are we? That’s too bad. I thought we might unwind before we move elsewhere.”

Damn and hell, Dean thought, but he kept that to himself as Cain flicked on the television and positioned a cushion on the floor beside the couch. He could be bratty, talk back and tell Cain that he didn’t want to ‘relax’ and that he wanted to jump into their scene, but there was a time and place for mouthing off at his Dom and tonight’s mood didn’t slant toward that behavior. Thus, Dean sank obediently onto the cushion beside the couch, eyes trained on Cain as he sat back and exhaled a long sigh.

Cain settled on some history channel special – one about actual history, not about aliens – and pushed his hand into Dean’s hair to stroke his head again. If Dean were a cat he would have purred. As it stood, Dean leaned up into the touch, almost desperate for any contact he could get. His cock was fully erect now, hard and leaking a tiny patch of precome to the front of his expensive panties. He squirmed in place, seeking any kind of pressure or friction he could get, but the moment Cain cast Dean a sharp look, he stilled and schooled himself back into place. There wasn’t much Dean could do for himself while kneeling like this, anyway. The power rested entirely in Cain’s hands.

Dean didn’t have to think about a damn thing.

The history special proved to be the kind of documentary that Cain knew Dean could zone out to. Dean could keep his eyes on the screen and basically listen, but for the most part his attention fell to the soft movement of Cain’s hand in his hair, the scratch of his nails against his scalp, and the occasional catch of the ring that Cain wore on his right hand.

Dean fell so far into his own head that he didn’t notice when the documentary’s credits rolled and the television screen blipped out to black again until Cain straightened and rose to his feet. He offered Dean a hand up, which Dean took, using Cain as an anchor to steady his shaking legs. He kept his eyes down and let Cain guide him to their bedroom.

“Get on the bed,” Cain commanded, “Hands and knees.”

Dean scrambled to obey and arranged his body into the position. His forehead pressed into their soft, billion-kajillion-thread-count sheets. Sweat already slicked Dean’s body. He felt like a shaken bottle of soda ready to blow his top off – he was that hard, and his hips rolled forward for something to give him a little relief.

Cain’s hand resting on Dean’s flank, however, stopped the rocking movement of his body dead in its tracks.

“Do I have to tie you up to keep you still?” asked Cain, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Dean’s thigh where he rested his hand. Dean didn’t know if he should respond to that or if Cain was thinking out loud, so he kept his mouth shut. That turned out to be the right choice, as Cain continued, “No, I don’t think so. I think you can be good for me without restraints. You’ve been such a good boy for me this evening, haven’t you?”

A whimper tore out of Dean before he could help it.

“Yes, you have,” Cain went on, “You’ve been very good, and that’s how I know you’ll keep being my good boy. You will, won’t you? Speak.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean whispered.

“I thought so,” Cain hummed, “So you’ll stay still. You won’t move from this spot, won’t touch yourself, won’t try to rub up against the mattress. Have I made myself understood?”

Dean agreed, “Yes, sir,” and thrust every ounce of attention into keeping himself firmly in one place, no matter how bad he was aching to get off.

Behind him, Cain hardly made a sound as he slid open what had to be their play drawer. Dean almost forgot his promise to stay still and wiggled his toes in anticipation, but managed to stop himself before he actually did it. Cain made a noise of approval that filled Dean with such a nice feeling he was sure that he could fly with it.

“What do you want tonight, sweet boy?” asked Cain, petting a hand down Dean’s spine.

“I want you to choose, sir,” Dean answered.

“Mm,” Cain said, “You have been very good. You _might_ deserve my cock. But where should I put it? In your pretty mouth, maybe. Or maybe you’d like to be fucked. My sweet boy loves to be fucked.”

Dean would have nodded were he not under strict instructions to not move.

“Your ass looks divine in silk and lace,” Cain praised.

The praise Cain gave Dean so freely both in the bedroom and out of it overwhelmed Dean more than almost anything else did. They fought once, and Dean snapped that one day Cain would realize how worthless Dean was, how Cain would realize he’d wasted time and money and effort on a nobody. Cain’s eyes went dark at the words, and they’d cannonballed straight from arguing into a heated scene that ended with Dean pinned to the living room floor listening to Cain sing his praises right against his ear while he moved in and out of Dean’s body.

No one ever thought so much of Dean before. Not ever. Dean still didn’t think that he’d earned the regard Cain held for him, but he kept that to himself and resolved to prove to Cain that he was worth everything that Cain did for him. He would be Cain’s good boy, because Cain didn’t deserve to be disappointed by Dean.

Cain palmed over Dean’s ass with one hand and ordered, “Tell me your safeword, sweet boy.”

Dean unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth and wet his lips before he found enough voice to respond, “Impala, sir.”

“Good,” said Cain. He rubbed Dean’s lower back, and then gave a light slap to his right cheek.

Dean made certain to remain in place as Cain hooked a finger under the waistband of the panties and eased them down just far enough to expose Dean’s bare ass to the air. Sometimes Cain asked Dean to finger himself open in the morning and put a plug in for the day, but that morning he’d only left the panties, so Dean didn’t venture beyond making sure he’d be clean for Cain when they played.

The pop of a lube cap made Dean want to squirm from anticipation, but he kept a lid on the desire. The wait stretched out. He knew Cain was making him wait on purpose. It was a test, a test of Dean’s control. Well, hell, Dean would show him. He wasn’t gonna fuckin’ move for anything, short of the penthouse catching on fire or a goddamn alien invasion.

Finally, fucking _finally_ , Cain touched him, although the rake of Cain’s nails down Dean’s back wasn’t the touch that he craved. He wanted Cain to own him, wanted Cain to be inside him, to take Dean out of the whirlwind of thoughts that cycled over and over and over if he didn’t do _something_ to take himself out of it. This – scenes with Cain – this was his exit route from his head, the off-ramp from a poisonous highway looping around his mind.

A cool, slick finger pushed inside Dean while he faded into his thoughts. He swallowed back a noise, but damn, did he want to curse and complain at how slow Cain was going, teasing on purpose to test Dean’s will. He thrust a single finger in and out of Dean’s body as though enjoying a lazy summer day, letting the time pass as it chose to.

Goddamnit, Dean wanted to move.

But he didn’t.

Dean held still.

“My good boy,” Cain rumbled. He withdrew his hand in its entirety, but a beat later a second finger breached Dean alongside the first. He fingered Dean open with care and precision, stretching and teasing. When Cain massaged his fingers over Dean’s prostate, Dean almost arched up off of the bed, but he managed to keep it down to a full-body twitch.

Cain used his free hand to slap the left side of Dean’s ass at the movement. A _sorry, sir_ sat poised at the tip of Dean’s tongue, but Cain was in the zone and hadn’t given Dean permission to speak again, so Dean let the apology float away and trusted Cain to take care of him. He melted into the stroking touch of Cain’s hand, brain going butter-soft and hazy.

Just as Dean started to float, Cain’s touch drew away. He whined.

“I know, good boy,” Cain said, “I know. Don’t worry. You’ll have your reward. You’ve been so good for me today…you made a delicious meal, wore the clothes I asked you to, knelt beside me all that time…I’ve neglected you, haven’t I? I think you need a treat for being so impressive.”

At last Dean heard the clink of Cain’s belt unbuckling and the whisper of fabric falling. God, fuck, Cain was going to fuck Dean while he was still wearing his whole damn suit, even the shoes. Cain would be sheathed inside Dean fully clothed, while Dean had nothing to cover his body but a scrap of fucking cream-colored silk. His eyes rolled back in his head at the image. Even though he couldn’t see Cain from his position on his hands and knees, Dean knew he must look incredible now. Cain always did.

The blunt, lubed head of Cain’s cock thrust into Dean in one single, smooth movement. The care and tender touch came to a screeching halt, as Cain lifted Dean’s hips and drove into him with such force that the mattress jolted forward. Dean clutched the sheets in his fists and trembled with the effort to keep quiet.

Cain must have noticed, because he said, “You can make as much noise as you’d like, sweet boy.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dean gasped, and let out a howling moan as Cain fucked into him again. The man was well-endowed, and the sting of something so big inside Dean’s body never failed to tear the loudest, happiest noises right from Dean’s lungs.

“Look at you,” Cain breathed, still bearing the weight of Dean’s legs, still pounding into him without a hitch, “You look so beautiful when you take my cock, did you know that? You look amazing, all stretched out and red…most beautiful thing I have ever seen, my good boy.”

Dean gasped wetly and whimpered, “Thank you, sir.”

As Cain powered into Dean, Dean drifted to that place of quiet and contentment. He heard his voice groaning and gasping, heard his mouth form the words _sir_ and _please_ and _more_ , but he was someplace else, a good place, soaring far above the problems that plagued him on planet earth and sent Dean spiraling. He wanted to ride back onto Cain’s cock, but Cain still hadn’t given Dean the order to move, so he kept his legs limp, let Cain hold him and fuck him however he liked. Dean didn’t have to think about a single thing here. Here, he found sanctuary.

“You won’t come until I’ve given permission,” Cain leaned over to whisper in Dean’s ear.

Dean cried out and agreed, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

And Christ, did Dean want to come. Every push and pull of Cain’s body into his seemed to tug the panties across Dean’s straining erection, hinting at relief but coming nowhere near enough to achieve it. Dean cried and moaned as he barreled closer to orgasm, determined that he wouldn’t come until after his Dom, his Cain.

Cain’s pace picked up, his strength propelling him harder into Dean’s body. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the wide space of the master bedroom. When his hips began to grind slower, thrusts lengthening and getting dirtier, Dean knew that Cain must be close. One of Cain’s hands dropped Dean’s legs and yanked up on Dean’s hair, just hard enough to hurt.

“I’m going to come inside you,” Cain said, “and you’ll love it, won’t you, good boy?”

“Yes,” Dean gasped, “Yes, sir. Please.”

At Dean’s broken plea, Cain fucked up into him one last time, and warmth spread inside Dean’s body. Cain let his grip loosen on Dean’s hair and leg and Dean went slack beneath him, though now he was well beyond keyed-up and would go off like a rocket at the slightest touch to his dick. Cain knew, of course, and ground his softening cock into the mess of lube and come leaking from Dean’s ass.

Right in Dean’s ear, Cain asked, “Is there something that you want, sweet boy?”

“I need to come, sir,” Dean said, “Please.”

“You have been very good for me,” Cain mused, “I think you might deserve it.”

With that, Cain reached around and cupped Dean through the soft fabric of the panties. When he slipped his hand inside, Dean came after a single flick of Cain’s wrist, right into the new pair of panties. He made a noise torn between tortured pleasure and complaint at ruining the underwear, a sound that Cain managed to translate precisely and reply to with, “It’s okay, sweet boy, I’ll get you another pair.”

For a handful of minutes, they lay pressed together like that on the edge of the bed, unmoving. When Cain lifted off and out of Dean, Dean let out a helpless moan and reached blindly behind himself to pull Cain back. He felt empty and cold without his weight, and blind without his guidance.

“None of that,” Cain said, “I’m drawing you a bath, and I’m going to get you some water and a snack. Okay?”

“Mmph,” Dean expressed, face down into the mattress.

Cain disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, and a beat later, the sound of water filling the tub hit Dean’s ears. Cain returned wearing a set of pajamas and his favorite silk robe. After pulling the soiled panties off of Dean’s legs, Cain heaved him off of the bed with little difficulty. Dean tried to help and walk, but mostly he just stumbled on his jelly legs until he managed to topple into the warm water and bubbles filling the bathtub.

Cain left Dean’s side only once more and brought back a bottle of water and a protein bar, the kind with a chocolate outside coating like Dean liked. Under Cain’s watchful eye, Dean ate and knocked back the water, then sank further into the tub. He let himself be guided and manhandled as Cain leaned over the lip of the tub and washed his body, scrubbing away sweat and come. When he washed Dean’s hair, he massaged the shampoo into Dean’s scalp and murmured more praise.

After the bath, Cain wrapped Dean in a fluffy towel, dried his body, and instructed him to dress in his favorite pajamas – a pair of old sweats and an AC/DC t-shirt he’d had since before he dropped out of high school. When they both collapsed back onto the bed, Dean felt like he could melt through the mattress and onto the floor, his body was so damn relaxed and happy. The floaty, wonderful feeling of subspace fizzled away comfortably, and he nuzzled up under Cain’s arm, pressing his cheek to his chest, content and sleepy and well-fucked.

As Dean traced the embroidery on Cain’s classy robe, he thought again about how strange his life had become. Then he decided that, strange it may have been, and maybe he hadn’t expected it, but Dean was sure as hell glad that this is where he got to be.


End file.
